Quake
by IamThePasserby
Summary: Trapped in a the rundown remains of a school after a sudden earthquake, Dean races desperately to find Sam before his little brother's time runs out, but Sam may not have enough time, or blood, to spare.
1. Chapter 1

**QUAKE**

CHAPTER 1

Dean decided that Mr. Varner sucked.

And so did fifth grade.

The classroom was colorful, and the walls were covered in posters, a calendar, and a chalkboard. There were cabinet's on the right hand side, next to the door, and the rest of the classroom was devoted to cheap desks with creaky chairs. Mr. Varner was lecturing about the French Revolution to the kids in the chairs, all of whom were either drawing absentmindedly on their worksheets or poking each other with pencils and giggling.

Yup, fifth grade definitely sucked.

Dean sighed from his back row seat in the far corner. He just wanted school to be over so that he could grab Sammy and go, but Fridays always seemed to last longer than other days. He glanced at the clock again, wondering if it had stopped. It seemed to be going way too slow. He tapped his foot and fingers, involuntarily beating the time one of the many songs memorized in his head.

He looked at the clock again, ignoring Mr. Varner's enthusiasm for guillotines. _Ugh, c'mon._ The clock was still going _so_ slowly. _Hurry up_, he thought impatiently, _bring on the three-day weekend already._

He started to count down the minutes left as he tapped out the beat to a song, willing time to move faster than it was.

* * *

History was Sam's favorite part of class.

"Abraham Lincoln."

"Very good, Sam! Yes, it was President Lincoln who..."

Sam smiled to himself, and glanced to is left to catch Mark's eye. Mark grinned at him and gave a thumbs up.

Yup, Sam decided, he really liked first grade. In fact, he was almost bummed it was already Friday; long weekends were cool, but he actually liked this school…

He heard a rattling sound. It was odd; in that split second when he knew something was happening and no one else did, he managed a swift glance around the room at his twenty-three classmates; the closest person he had to a friend, Mark, was laughing at something the teacher had just said; Clara, the prettiest girl in the world, was playing with one of her pigtails while she smiled wistfully at the back of Mark's head; and Mrs. Iverson was writing Abraham Lincoln's name on the board.

Then there was a huge lurch, and the world seemed to be falling because everything was shaking really hard, and the kids were screaming and Mrs. Iverson was shouting for them to duck and cover, and Sam did as he was told and ducked under his desk while the floor shook beneath him and the room moved around him and Mark yelled "what's happening" and Clara started to cry.

Sam held tightly onto his desk's legs and wished that he were with Dean. He knew it'd be okay if he was with his brother.

* * *

Dean sensed it coming before it came.

Some peripheral part of his senses knew. He'd still been counting and tapping when he suddenly frowned and looked around the room. The guy on his left was chewing on his pencil while he aimed an eraser at another kid. The girl in front of him was writing "Kayla & Dean" over and over again in cursive on her notebook. For some reason, Dean knew that something was about to happen, and he was already alert and ready when the thrumming rumble began.

When the first person gasped, he bolted. He heard Mr. Varner's shocked voice call him back, he heard Kayla shout his name, and he heard the guy with the eraser cuss loudly in surprise.

He ignored them all. His only thought was for Sam.

He was unsteady on the trembling ground, and he fell once but was quick to right himself. He could see through the doors of various classrooms; students were under their desks, some excited and some scared while the teachers called to everyone telling them to stay calm.

Dean was not calm. The ground was shaking beneath his running feet, and Sam wasn't in his arms.

It only took him seconds to find the door, and he had barely time to think about being angry that the door wasn't open like the other classes were before he burst inside yelling Sam's name.

* * *

The earthquake lasted about sixteen seconds.

Everyone was talking very loudly after it was over, and Sam was coming warily out from under his desk when Dean burst through the door.

"Dea-"

"Sammy!" Dean ran to him and pulled him up, barely noticed by the other children in the room.

"It's ok Dean, I'm ok."

And it _was_ okay. Even though Mr. Varner gave Dean a discipline notice and made him write down the earthquake drill directions thirty times for homework, it was okay. Even though Sam and Mark weren't such good friends anymore because Sam punched Mark in the face when he called Dean a freak for running around during an earthquake, it was okay. Even though Dad got mad at both brothers when he had to sign their discipline notices, it was okay.

It was okay, because Sam had Dean, and Dean had Sam, and it was okay as long as things stayed that way.

* * * PRESENT DAY* * *

"Dude, this is kinda creepy."

They dusty hallways seemed darn near suffocating, the old feelings of institution and oppresive homework rising as Dean led the way through the first floor of what had once been the Bluecove Elementary School. Now it was just a dumpy building waiting to be bought and torn down, but some kids had been stupid enough to visit the supposedly haunted site and get themselves hurt by whatever spirit was claiming the joint.

"It's not that creepy. You just always hate schools," Sam replied, and Dean could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Yeah, well at least I'm not unhealthily obsessed with it like you were. You probably looked up inappropriate pictures of Mrs. Iverson when we were kids..."

"Mrs. who? And that's just gross, Dean."

The California moonlight shone brightly through the long windows that lined the hall, and the brothers were careful to tread lightly, even as they talked quietly. This wasn't a difficult hunt, but they were too well trained to be careless, even for the little stuff.

"You don't remember? First grade I think, fifth for me..."

"Oh yeah. Didn't I punch someone that year?"

"Yeah, Dad was ticked. Can't remember why you did it though, it's not really in your pansy nature..." Dean glanced back and was pleased to see his brother's scowl. He didn't expect what he said next, though.

"I think he called you a name." Dean stopped and stood up from his crouch, turning to face his brother with a blank face.

"Really?"

Sam shrugged, his face equally blank.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Huh." Dean turned back around, not sure what to say.

They made their way through the first floor, finding nothing, but the sightings had all occurred on the upper floors anyway, so it wasn't concerning. They'd just come to the stairs when Dean paused.

"Alright, this is gonna take all night if we keep going this pace," Dean grumbled. Sam nodded his agreement before he replied.

"I'll take floors four and five, you take three and two?"

"Sounds good. Be careful. You got whatcha need?"

"Salt, lighter fluid, matches."

"Alright, check in at," Dean looked at his watch, "11:45."

"Right."

They started up the stairs, Dean stepping off at the second while Sam continued up. The elder paused for the smallest second to watch his brother keep going up the stairs, and he had the briefest feeling of panic he always got when Sam left his sight. It was a fleeting emotion, and he began his sweep of the second floor with his determination and concentration intact.

About twenty minutes passed without event. He'd just finished a completely fruitless search of the furthest classroom from the stairwell, and he was starting to get frustrated when an incredibly familiar sensation stole upon him, making him tense and still, even if just momentarily. He frowned as some peripheral sense of his felt something coming, something he recognized but couldn't place.

That is, he couldn't place it until he felt heard the rumble.

His eyes widened as he flashed back to another school in another time, a time when he'd been apart from his brother and felt the same familiar feeling, when he'd sensed it coming before it came, when he'd bolted to find Sam to make sure he was okay.

Dean sprinted back down the hallway, but he had barely taken a step before the ground started to quake beneath his feet.

As the world lurched around him, Dean shouted the only thing he could think to say before something large and heavy collided with the top of his head.

"SAM!" Part of the ceiling caved in on him, and Dean saw white, then inky black, then nothing at all.

* * *

Sam found the bones after about twenty minutes.

He'd gone to the top floor first, deciding to work his way down. He'd run into the spirit once, but a handful of salt had kept it a bay long enough for him to salt the remains and drench them in lighter fluid. He'd just dropped the lit match onto the pile, and after a subtle whoosh of nonexistent wind swept through the wind, it was done. Easy. He turned to make his way back to his brother, leaving the small fire to burn itself out.

He was just stepping into the hall, pulling his cell out to call Dean, when it hit.

It was odd; he heard a rattling sound that made his pulse quicken and his jaw clench, but he couldn't figure out where he recognized it from. In that split second when he knew something was going down, Sam had time to ratchet up his worry levels, and he was about to panic and yell a warning to his brother when the rattling increased dramatically, this time accompanied by a massive jerk that almost floored him.

"What the h-!" The entire building convulsed underneath his stumbling feet, and Sam grasped hold of the doorjamb, realizing with incredulity that this was an _earthquake, are you kidding me?!_

"Dean!" he shouted, lurching into the hall in the direction he knew the stairwell was. He knew it was kinda stupid, that he should just wait it out, but he remembered now, he remembered how Dean had gone running through the building that time when they were young, how reckless he was, how stupid his brother could be. He needed to get to him _now_.

"DEAN! DE-" his cries were cut off as he was knocked unconscious. He fell like a stone onto the unsteady floor, and he lay there quiet and inactive as he was buried.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean's body groaned without him intending to as he climbed back to consciousness. He started to stifle the sound automatically, not wanting Sam to hear and worry, then stopped worrying about it and groaned louder, because _holy heck_ his head _hurt_.

"Sssam...?"

_What the...what happenned?_

Dean shifted, pulling his hands up under him and pushing up, keeping his eyes closed against the stampede in his head. _Ow._ He got into a seated position several times before his vision joined and focused.

The hallway of the floor he was on was realtively intact save for a gaping crack from ceiling to floor in the wall a few feet from him. The window at the hall's end was shattered, glass on the floor and a cool, inappropriately calm breeze flowing inside, verging on chilly.

Dean remembered with a force jolting enough to bother his ridiculously strong headache why he was here, why he was on the floor, why Sam wasn't with him, why everything was sucking out loud in surround sound.

Earthquake. Sammy!

Dean shoved himself onto his feet, pushing aside the half-whole glass light cover that had fallen and stattered over his head when the quake hit, the reason for his headache. He stumbled once and only once, before he righted him self to book it toward the stairs.

It was odd. It was wrong how the building was so quiet around him now, how everything was so still and calm just when his heart had started pounding, and his head was pulsing, and adrenalin was raging through his body.

It was odd.

Dean slowed when he got to the stairs, looking down at the stairs so he didn't kill himself falling down - that wouldn't help Sam.

If he needed help at all. Dean stuck his hand in his jacket, digging impatiently for his cell phone. He was panting, and he could taste the plaster ing the air, seeming almost powdery, making him want to cough or spit.

He'd just reached the second floor when the tinny ring against his ear switched to voicemail.

"Crap."

Unbidden, a memory flew swiftly accross Dean's mind, so fast that he almost didn't realize it.

But he did. He recalled a night that was long and terrible, when Sam barely made it through after being in the hospital for days and in pain for weeks. It was one of their last hunts before Sam left for Stanford. Not the best memory at all, especially right now...

* * * PAST * * *

The house was old.

It was one of those classic scooby doo kind of things, complete with cobwebs, ugly carpeting, and too much gold paint. Gaudily decorated, the stereotypical rich-people-with-no-taste-and-plenty-of-secrets haunted house. The front doors sat open, the rusty knob obviously broken. The entryway was large, open, staircases on both sides and wallpaper that was flaking off in peices. The stairs led to one balcony with an ornate and overdone banister that might have been cherrywood or oak under its coat of dust. An open doorway at the far end of the balcony had only darkness behind it.

It was quiet in the midnight. Quieter than it should have been.

_Oh crap. Time to go._

A crash, a yell, "Move, move, move!" and Dean was running around the corner of the banister into the entry way with Sam directly on his heels.

Not fast enough.

The spirit wasn't a particularly evil one, just a particularly irritable one. Irritable in a deadly kind of way, but it was supposed to be simple enough for his twenty-one year-old self to handle, albeit with the aid of his geeky seventeen year-old brother. Or at least, that's what Dad had said.

Dean felt a wrenching about his waist, and he smashed backwards into the wall, stunned, while Sam got pushed the other direction, into the banister.

The banister broke when he hit it, dust shooting outwards everywhere, and sending Sam flying into the too big chandelier over the entryway.

Twenty-five feet over the entryway.

"Sam!"

Dean saw the chandelier and his brother fall, heard the crash of shattering glass and crumpling metal.

"Sam! SAMMY!"

Dean dodged a flying vase and dashed for the stairs, taking them too fast, toppling down the last half. He was up again and running without a single groan.

"Sammy? Sammy?!"

Sam lay still, facedown in the center of the entryway among jagged remains of the antique chandelier, a pool of shattered glass and curled wrought iron around him.

_No, please no, he's fine. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine..._

"Dean."

Dean sighed in relief just as he came to his brother's side. Sam was awake, and able to speak, both very good signs, even if he hadn't yet moved and his voice had been nearly inaudible and he was laying on top of glass after falling thirty feet.

Dean knelt, placing a hand over Sam's wrist and leaning over to try and see his brother's face.

"Hey, I'm right here. Can you move?"

"No." Sam's voice was quiet, flat.

"Alright Sammy, that's okay, lemme just check you out here-" Dean reached an arm over to feel Sam's right side. He barely pressed his fingers before Sam screamed.

"AAAUGH!"

"Okay, okay," Dean tried to keep his voice calm, pulling his hands away,"Sammy, Sammy? You still with me? God, sorry..." Dean gritted his teeth, unsure of how badly Sam was hurt.

Sam whimpered. _Oh god..._

"Sam? Sammy, tell me what hurts, man. Can you tell me...can you..."

Dean forgot what he was saying when he spotted the blood seeping out from under Sam's torso. Alot of blood. Too much blood.

Dean stepped over and around, nearly laying down to see what was causing it, not wanting to move Sam until he knew.

There. He could see it, one of the chandelier's wrought iron curls had broken off, the curved end under Sam - no, _inside_ of Sam. Sam had to have landed flat on it, and it had pierced through his chest, Dean could only guess how deep.

There was no way Dean could fix this on his own. _But I can't move him or..._

"Dean..."

"I know, Sammy, I know, it'll be okay, lemme just-I'll just...wait, no Sam, don't!"

Sam was pulling his hands up to his head, and then doing a pushup, trying to get himself off of the broken iron. Dean wanted to stop him, but he didn't know how to restrain him without hurting him more; Sam's mouth was open in a silent scream.

Then he was up and off, just managing to suck in a haggard breath before dropping.

Dean caught him in his arms, pulling him quickly away from the peices _oh man that thing was huge and curved, three inches deep at least_ and laying him down again on his back near the door.

He was bleeding profusely, the wound open and wide, torn from the curve of the iron. The blood was everywhere, and Sam was gasping, moaning.

Dean pulled him up in his arms to carry him outside. Sam always weighed a ton, but somehow he was always easy to carry.

"Hold on Sam, hold on." Every step seemed to be causing Sam more pain, he sounded like he was choking.

"Aaaah….augh-aaAAAUGHHHHH..."

"Hold on, Sammy, _please_..."

* * * PRESENT DAY * * *

"Hold on, Sammy, please..." Dean muttered, trying to reign in the dread that was slowly but steadily clawing up his spine. After searching the second and third floors, calling down the fourth and fifth floors and finding nothing, hearing no response, Dean was beginning to panic. The top two floors in particular were a mess, he didn't know where to start, and he couldn't waste time when Sam might be in trouble.

This could be more than injury. Dean couldn't know if Sam had found the bones yet, and even if he had, he might not have finished the job. An angry spirit was no good to have creeping around in an unsound building when Sam might be hurt.

Dean cussed harshly, frustrated. Then an idea struck him. He cringed. _Cell phone. Dean, you idiot._

He pulled out his cellphone again, dialing Sam and hoping to hear the ringer to tell him which floor Sam was on.

He let it ring, pulling the phone away from his ear to listen. Nothing. Not the fifth floor then.

He dashed down the stairs, to floor four. He dialed. He listened. Nothing. He cussed again. If he's not answering, his phone is either broken or_...no._

Back to the third, second, even the first floor.

Nothing at all.

"There's no way! He has to be here somewhere! DANGIT!"

Dean raced back up the stairs to try the topmost floors again.

On the fifth floor, Dean edged a ways down the damaged hall, just in case. It seemed unsteady, half caved in on the far end; he could hear the outside and feel the cold air, see the tops of palm trees. The ceiling had cracked and crumbled, the far end of the hall completely caved almost halfway down the entire length. The plaster and studs were broken and piled, glass from lights and plastic from wiring, insulation and plexiglass and smashed tile all distributed unevenly across the narrow, _it seemed so much bigger before_, space.

Dean paused just before the spot where the ceiling ended, feeling the breeze and gnoring the slight chill that had nothing to do with temperature slide over him. He dialed once more.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail. _No, nonononononononoNO!_

Dean was just about to head back and down the stairs, ready to seaarch the fourth floor again, but something made him stop and redial just one more time, a gut feeling.

He called again, and this time, with a new feeling in his gut, a clenching, terribly familiar and terrifically intense feeling, he heard it. Faint. At the end of the hall, amidst the rubble.

Grimacing, Dean began a cautious tread over plaster and borads, a careful tread, a terrified tread, a torturously slow tread, a stupid_ I hate stupid nature and stupid schools and stupid earthquakes and STUPID SCHOOL_ tread.

_And Sammy you had better be okay._

He came to the most crammed area, and he though the sound of the ring had come from just beyond it, right at the edge, so he climbed gingerly atop the pile, the materials shifting slightly and creaking under him. He could see the stars, hear the quiet. He could see Sam anywhere.

Desperately now, Dean made the call again, and the ring was close - weird close, so close it was almost as if...

Not as if. Reality.

The ringing was coming from under him.

It was coming from where Dean was standing, on top of the pile of debri.

Dean was standing on top of his brother.

It took everything within him not to lose it then and there.

* * * PAST * * *

"Ninety-eight..." _one thousand,_ "ninety nine..." _one thousand,_ "one hundred," _finally._

Dean pulled himself quietly away from the kitchen wall and into the apartment's living room, smirking as he listened for Sam to give away his hiding place - probably by unsuccessfully stifling his laughter or accidentally falling over.

At five years old, Sam was already the biggest clutz alive.

Dean scanned the rooms one by one, not spotting any obvious limbs jutting out of cabinets or closets. _Wow, wising up, are we Sammy? Good to see hide-and-seek has taught ya something..._

Still grinning, Dean started in the bedroom; behind the curtains, under the covers, behind the door. He moved on to the living room; behind the couch, next to the drawers, under the rug. _Huh. Musta picked a good spot this time, Sammy._

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" Dean taunted, slight annoyance crossing his features for just a second. Sam had never been able to hide for this long.

Twenty minutes later, Dean was beginning to panic.

"Sam?! Game's over, you win! Get out here _now_!" he'd been calling through the house for the last ten minutes, and Sam still had yet to answer him.

_Oh no, oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no..._

Dean was whirling franticallly in the bedroom, wondering whether to run out the front door or go out the window to see who had stolen his baby brother from him.

"SAM!"

There was no voice that answered him, but he did get a response.

_"Hsnnnnnghh.."_

Dean froze, listening. He heard it again. Again.

It was coming from under the bed.

_No way._

He dropped immediately, gazing and gaping at what he saw under his bed.

_No frickin WAY!_

There Sam lay, curled up with his Teddy Bear, sleeping like a log and snoring. _And we all know Sam can sleep through anything, for the love of..._

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to break something or break down. He let himself fall limp on his stomach onto the ground and roll onto his back, breathing slow and deep.

_Dean, you idiot. He was hiding uner the bed the whole dang time. He just fell asleep._

Dean tried to laugh, he wanted to.

For some reason, alll he could do was stare at his baby brother asleep under the bed, an ironic situation that would have been funny, except that it wasn't.

_That's it Sammy. No more hide-and-seek._

* * * PRESENT DAY * * *

"That's _it_, no more school's, ever, you here me? Sam?! Aw god..."

Dean was digging like he'd never dug in his life. He grabbed what ever he could, tossing it behind him and to his left, down the still intact end of the hall. Every chunk of wall he pushed aside had more wall inder it, and every peice of wood had plaster underneath that.

"Hold on Sammy, I'm comin' man," Dean heard the tremble in his voice.

He pulled away a particularly large slab of ceiling.

There, sticking out from between the cracked, tiled floor and the shatter mreains of a ceiling light was a tuft of shaggy brown hair.

And though Dean knew what he'd been digging out, it hadn't quite hit him until just then

"Oh my god."

Faster still he grabbed the debri, shoving it away from where he now knew Sam's head was.

"Sammy!"

He'd uncovered Sam's head and shoulder's when he reached for a chunk of wood.

"C'mon Sammy, gimme somthing..."

It wouldn't budge.

Dean pressed, hard, careful not to push it harder onto his brother, but then he realized that the wood wasn't a mere chunk, it was the end of a suppot beam, and it was wedged against the floor and what remained of the wall, pinning Sam the the rest of the debri over his back and legs.

_Not good. Oh man, not good._

Dean leaned down, almost laying flat, to try and see if his brother was awake or _not a possibility, don't even consider it_ and how badly hurt he was. _Bad, really bad._ His little brother was on his stmach under the beam, his left arm splayed out in Dean's direction and his right under him, it looked like. His face was turned toward Dean, and it looked paler than it should have, covered in a thin layer of dusted plaster and settling bits of ceiling. The salt and pepper look in his hari because of it was unnerving.

His eyes were closed.

Dean pressed his shaking hand to Sam's neck, letting out a sigh _that was so not a sob_ when he felt the haggard pulse there.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean lightly patted his brother's cheek, desperate for the flash of hazel that would mean Sam was really with him.

But Dean knew even then that if he was going to get Sam out of here alive tonight, waking him would be the least of his problems.


	3. Chapter 3

* * * PAST * * *

"Hold on Sam, hold on." Dean's voice sounded different than it should; strained, tight, shakey. It scared Sam.

"Aaaah….augh-aaAAAUGHHHHH..."

"Hold on, Sammy, _please_..." Every jolting step was causing Sam more pain. His chest felt like it was on fire, his body felt beaten, and he couldn't catch his breath, in fact, he felt like he couldn't breath at all, like his throat was too wet, flooding, and the back of his mouth was sticky and hot, making him gag, choke, but every reaction stabbed at him, every twitch made him want to scream.

"DEE-EAann.."

"I-I know Sammy, oh god, please, just...god please, _please_..."

_Was that a prayer? It sounded like one, but from Dean...and those sobs, surely those weren't coming from Dean, were they?_

_No_, Sam decided, as he felt himself start to lose it, because there was no air, _no air_, and blackness had come over his eyes when they rolled back into his head. _No_, Sam thought, _Dean would never cry like that, would never resort to prayer._

_Unless..._

But then Sam faded completely, and he was unable to suppose any longer.

Time passed.

He felt...nothing in particular.

He just knew he felt. The closest he could come to describing it was...fuzzy. He felt fuzzy and floating, like clouds mixed with...carpet.

_Not the cheap stuff, though...new, soft...shag..._

But why did he feel like this? Was he dead? Was he in, like, purgatory?

"Please Sam..."

_Whoa, why does God sound like Dean? Tell me God doesn't have Dean's voice..._

"Three days is a long time, man. Just...wake up, okay? I swear I'll give you anything you want, just wake up..."

_Not dead then...asleep? _

"Dad'll never forgive me. I'll never forgive me..."

_Where am I? What is Dean talking about? Dean? Dean? Deeeaaaa..._

"Nnn...nnnnnnnnnn..."

"Sammy?!"

There was a light buzzing sound, and then alot more voices, and Sam suddenly realized there had been alot of beeping and whirring noises around too, he just hadn't noticed.

And then Sam understood where he was, why there was something long and plastic forced down his throat, why he couldn't move or talk right, why his head felt too big and his eyes felt stuck closed. He remembered the house, the spirit, the chandelier, falling, screaming...

It was alright, though. He was pretty much just glad to be alive.

He knew something would have to be done about Dean's voice though. It still sounded like he was crying.

* * * PRESENT * * *

He felt...wrong.

Not just like flu-wrong or puberty-wrong or even hard-on-in-church-wrong. He just knew he felt wrong, like something big was wrong, or was about to turn out wrong.

"Please Sam..."

Dean's voice sounded wrong...maybe that was it, maybe that was the wrong thing. Sam realized his face had that odd novacaine feeling, because he could barely feel what must have been Dean' fingers tapping his cheek; it was like someone flicking your foot when it's fallen asleep. Maybe his face was asleep, as weird as that would be, maybe that was the wrong thing.

"Sam, c'mon man. Sammy!"

Without meaning to, Sam suddenly realized he must have responded, because he could see Dean's tilted face, too close to be normal, _is that the wrong thing?, _and his eyes too wide for things to be okay, _is that the wrong thing?, _and his face pale in the bluish light of the nighttime that was driffting from somewhere over his head, _is the blue light the wrong thing?_

"Dean," again, Sam's body acted of it's own accord; he couldn't seem to recall willing himself to speak.

But at least saying Dean's name seemed right and not wrong, even if his own voice sounded quiet and bleak.

Dean sighed and let his head hang for a moment, and Sam thought he could hear Dean muttering something that definitely contained the words 'thank,' 'you,' and 'god'.

But he might have been hallucinating, because pain made you do that sometimes, and he was just becoming increasingly aware of something seriously painful encompassing his entire body. He felt like his chest was impaled on a sword, and his legs were under a truck, and his back was broken into peices, and his head was swollen unnaturally, and everything hurt so much he couldn't even deal with it, couldn't push it aside or force it away or groan through it or scream through it or cry.

He could only let it wash over him, almost drowning him, and it made it hard to think, hard to remember who he was or what was happenning, because he couldn't for the life of him figure out why he was in so much pain, why he could move, why he was looking at Dean sideways, and why everything was just so _wrong_.

"Dean," he said again, only his time it sounded like he was begging to die, which wasn't what he'd been going for, but it actually worked out...whatever.

"I'm here, I'm here Sammy, it's-it's gonna be okay, alright? Just-just..." Dean looked at a loss.

"Hurts."

"Okay, I-uh-I'm just gonna, just-just, can you feel any-anything, Sammy? Can, can you tell me what hurts, anything?"

"Yes."

"Yes? Okay, yes. Yes..yes what?"

"Yes."

"You can feel your legs?"

"Yes."

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes," that one sounded like a whimper, even to Sam.

"Okay, it's okay. Can you move at all?"

"No."

"Can you tell if you're bleeding anywhere?"

"No."

"Can you string two or more words together?"

"No."

"Okay, don't try to, it's fine. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? I know it hurts, buddy, I'm gonna fix it, okay?"

"What."

"I said I've gotcha, Sammy, don't worry, I've gotcha."

"No."

"No? No what..."

"What."

"What, what...what happenned? Are you asking what happenned?"

"Yes..."

"We're in California, angry spirit, Blue Cove Elementary School, there was an earthquake-"

"Dead."

"Dead? You mean the spirit? You burned the bones?"

"Yes."

"Alright good, good job Sammy. Don't worry, you're gonna be fine."

"Air."

"What? Sam, what?"

"Air."

It was getting hard to breathe.

"Oh, oh god, okay, I'm calling for help Sam, okay? I'm calling right now, don't panic, just stay with me man, don't-"

He felt the horrible impaled feeling shift in his chest everytime his body made him breathe, and he could feel a disgustingly familiar sensation building in his throat, and he wanted to cough bad, so badly, but he couldn't and it was hurting.

"-need you to stay with me, Sam, alright? Sam? Please, man, don't-don't close your eyes, no, don't-"

The air was coming harder, he couldn't breathe enough, it was wrong, so wrong.

"-on the fifth floor, there's a big beam thing, I can't move it myself-"

Dean was talking to someone else now, he figured, which was weird, because he couldn't see Dean anymore, only hear him, but the pain was still there, and he still couldn't deal, couldn't cry or cry out.

"-please hurry. He's hurt bad. I don't know, hold on. Sammy, hey Sam...Sammy? Sam?!"

Sam prayed for unconsciousness to find him, even as volume seemed to increase around him and the pain continued to crash over him and he felt the first beginnings of warmth and wet seeping around parts of him, and he began to taste iron and salt on the back of his tongue.

He lay there with his eyes closed and the feelings ruling, waiting for his brother to save his life, and sorry that it seemed it might not happen this time.

* * * PAST * * *

Sam just tended to have bad luck.

Being tall was fine, but he was unlucky enough to get the freakishly-tall gene that made him somehow lanky and chubby at the same time, which was awkward, especially at age 12. Being smart was fine, but he was unlucky because everyone seemed to know that he was smart, and worse was that almost everyone hated him because of it.

And, of course, Sam was unlucky enough that Colton Crowell hated him the most out of everyone.

Yup, it was officially official. Sam just tended to have bad luck.

"Where ya goin' _Samuel_?"

_Great._ Even better, Colton always called him 'Samuel', except that he said it like 'Sam-yoo-ehhlll', and spit it like a curse word. _Wonderful_.

"Oh, uh, hi Colton." _Please don't pound my face._ Colton was the only fourteen year old sixth-grader who ever lived - he'd been held back twice. Sam knew how to defend himself, but Colton was just so darn big - taller than Sam, even, and way wider.

"Don't 'hi' me, jerk." _Oh, so it was one of those days. Even better._

Usually, Colton found him at the end of the school day when they'd had some big test that he'd failed, and he'd give Sam a hard time, push him around a little, maybe even threaten him some. He'd never actually beat Sam up, but it was inevitable.

Sam had neglected to tell Dean, of course, like an idiot.

And he hadn't even made it to the parking lot to get picked up yet. So no parents to watch his back. Yup, he was screwed, because Colton was looking like he'd _really_ failed that test. _And I totally aced it. Looks like today is the day. _

But then, Sam figured that if he was dead meat anyway, he might as well do the thing properly.

"Fine," Sam stepped right up to Colton, who loomed, a good foot taller than him,"what'd you think of the test, Ape-face? Easy, right? Oh sorry, I forgot, you're a hopeless mass of ugly idiot."

Colton stared at him, probably trying to catch up to the words Sam had thrown at him.

_Hey, this channelling-Dean thing isn't so hard, and Colton hasn't even hit me yet, he's just staring. Maybe I can run for it-_

BAM!

_Or not. _

Sam wasn't exactly sure what order things happened in next. Maybe Colton had punched him in the stomach, kicked him on the ground, and then layed into his face and ribs. Or maybe he'd kicked him in the ribs, punched him to the ground, and then layed into his face and stomach. Or maybe he'd kicked and punched and layed into his stomach, then kicked and punched and layed into him on the ground, then punched and kicked and layed into his face and ribs. Or...

_Screw it. _Either way, Sam wasn't even sure he was conscious when Colton finally left him there, pretty much a pulp behind the basketball courts. He was pretty sure he was dead, because his head felt like it was splayed out on the ground, and his face felt like it'd fallen off, and his stomach felt like it was wide open, and he was pretty sure all his ribs were just shards now, and he tasted blood and felt blood and smelt blood and

Maybe minutes went by, maybe years.

_Oh my god..._

Sam knew he didn't want to wake up. At the moment, he was fairly numb, save for an odd thrumming that he heard more than felt. He was pretty sure he didn't want to feel anything. It would probably hurt. Alot.

_Oh my god, Sammy, oh my god..._

But then, staying unconscious wasn't working out so great when he could hear someone freaking out right next to him.

_Sammy? Sammy?! Oh my god..._

Whoever it was was seriously taking god's name in serious vain.

_Ohmygodohmygodohmygod..._

It was actually kind of funny, except that the someone sorta sounded like Dean.

And just like that, Sam was fully conscious again. And it _did_ hurt. Alot.

"Sam? C'mon man, wake up, Sam, I need you to wake up buddy, please-"

"Guhhhhh..."

"Sam?! Sam, are you with me, can you here me?"

"Uhn..."

Okay, so talking wasn't working out so well. _Man, everything hurts so bad_. _Maybe I should just open my eyes._

_Eye._ Just one eye, because the left one was swollen shut, it felt like. _Yup, definitely not opening_. But the right eye was working somewhat okay.

He opened it, and Dean's panicked face swirled above him in front of a pink background. _Okay, so maybe the eye isn't working so well._

Because Dean didn't panic. Ever. And the last he remembered, there hadn't been anything remotely pink around when Colton had decided to beat the heaping heck out of him.

_Oh, that's the sky. Sunset_. Okay, now it made more sense. But Dean was talking again.

"...Johnson Middle School on Brockton, behind the basketbal courts, near the big gym. Please, I think he's hurt really bad, I don't know how long he's been here like this..."

Dean obviously wasn't talking to _him_, so maybe it was okay to go back to sleep now.

"No Sam, don't close your eyes, stay with me, please, stay with me!"

Or not.

"C'mon Sam, stay awake...stay awake with me, Sammy...stay awake..."

* * * PRESENT * * *

"Stay awake Sam, please."

The pain was no longer phantom pain from a dreamed memory. It was assaulting him, worse than before he thought, it had to be.

"Sam? Sam, open your eyes right now!" Dean sounding frantic was no longer just recollection either.

"Help," it wasn't actually the word Sam had been thinking - it was more like 'shutup' or 'tired' or maybe 'agony,' but he was almost past caring at this point.

Either way, Dean started making really terrible sounds that absolutely could _not_ have been him crying.

"I-I know Sam, I," Dean's words hitched horribly, frighteningly, "it's coming, help is coming, they're gonna get you out of here, it won't hurt after that, okay?"

"Dean."

"I'm right here Sam, can you feel my hand?"

Sam realized then that Dean had been holding his left hand for a long time now, he'd just neglected to acknowledge the feeling. It was wonderful now though, to feel something that wasn't hurting. As far as Sam could tell, his left arm wasn't actually damaged at all. He tried to squeeze Dean's hand.

It must have worked somewhat, because Dean started making those awful non-sob-sounds again.

And then Sam make the mother of all mistakes.

He decided that he would try to see if his other arm was okay. He mentally traced through the impaled feeling and found his shoulder, his elbow, and then his hand.

He twitched his wrist.

It was like an explosion inside his body, utter torture coursing through him. He screamed, and his eyes flew open, but his eyes still saw darkness because they were rolling back. He wanted to vomit, to pass out, to die, because it hurt so badly, like being run through a thousand times over. He couldn't hear Dean, didn't know what he was thinking, or saying, didn't care, because he knew now that something was very wrong, much more wrong than he'd originally thought, so wrong that there was no way, no possible this was fixable.

Sam could feel it, he could just tell.

Somehow he knew that his wrist, maybe even the bigger part of his forearm was very broken, that the bone had punctured through the skin of his arm a long ways, that he'd landed hard on that arm when he'd fallen, that the sharp bone had stabbed right through his chest and directly into one of his lungs, probably right up to his heart.

And Sam knew then that he was going to die, that he had effectively killed himself.

_This is it...I'm dying..._


	4. Chapter 4

***PAST***

The sun was warm.

Not hot, not glaring or harsh; not weak and lacking, or hiding; just clear and bright and _warm_.

Warm enough that the grass Sam lay on didn't dampen his clothes even though it was midmorning. The grass - it stretched out around him, past the side of the lake down the hill and clear through to and beyond the tree line, up more hills, rolling, reaching, to the mountains....

But Sam wasn't focused on that.

His focus was taken up, drawn completely down into the grass just in front of his face, where the blades tickled beneath his chin and made him crinkled his face and squirm sometimes; Sam stared intensely between squirms at the little bug in the grass before him. It was so tiny. It was so slow. It eased it's way over each blade, up and over and down and to the next one. It was orange and kind of see through and small, small, too small. How did things get so small? How did things get to be that color? Why was it here and not with other little orange bugs?

Sam huff a little curious huff, and the blades of grass twitched; the bug skittered a little.

Sam's face worked it's way into a smile as he watched it.

Lying in the grass, staring at a tiny bug while the sun was warm on him and the lake was shiny down the hill, and the smell of fried fish began to seep his way from the cabin behind him where Dean and Dad were cooking, Sam was completely calm, completely carefree, completely focused on nothing but the little bug that had caught his attention.

"Sam," Dean's voice called from the cabin, "food's ready. Come 'n get it before Dad eats it all!"

Sam wasn't sure if he heard or imagined his Dad's deep laugh follow.

Dean called his name again, "Sam, c'mon, get in here, buddy!"

Pushing up from the ground, Sam let out a loud, "Kay!" and bounded away toward the back door, turning to give a little wave to the bug he couldn't see anymore.

It was a cool bug. It was a nice day. The smell as he got closer to the cabin was amazing. Sam was always excited when Dad made his special fried fish.

It was a good day, and even just nine years old, Sam could appreciate it with more than a cursory meaning. It was really just a good day to be alive.

Sam climbed the steps and went in to eat with his family.

A good day to be alive.

***PRESENT***

Dean called his name again.

"Sam?! Sam w-what is it, oh god, Sammy Sammy no, wha...."

Sam's vision had kind of whited out, the searing and twisting and gouging pain much too much, his eyes couldn't function when his insides were hurting this badly.

"No Sam, don't! Don't you dare, you don't get to do this, you hear me?! Look at me, Sam! LOOK AT ME!"

Sam's eyes swiveled in his head, it was a miracle he could tell that at all when every sensation he was capable of feeling was caught up in the pain, the massive, sick pain. But Sam's eyes turned to Dean just as the white faded out and the dark hallway and the blue light and Dean's sideways-too-close face were in front of him again, and he was suddenly mortified.

Sam was completely and utterly horrified, because this was it, he was going to have to say bye to Dean. Sam could see the way his free hand was shaking, unnaturally; he could sense that his head was lolling even as he was laying face down. His vision wouldn't keep still, his eyes seemed intent on attempting to roll back every few seconds.

Sam could feel the life slipping out of him from the wound he knew was in his chest. He could feel his life dripping onto the floor and debris, coating his right arm, making a mess...

Dean was touching his face, his hair - the only places he could touch and know he wasn't hurting Sam worse.

"Sam, it's okay, it's okay," the words were obviously denial, more for Dean than for Sam, and it wasn't, it wasn't okay. Sam's vision was spotting, he couldn't tell if he was breathing anymore, didn't even care, but he had to say something, he had to let Dean know, he had so much....

He could only manage one word. It was going to have to do, because Sam wasn't going to make it any longer than one word, this was his goodbye.

Sam was dying.

And lying there, he gripped Dean's hand with a sudden fierceness he shouldn't have had, and he spluttered through the wet smothering in his through and on top of his tongue, feeling it spill over his lips and drip drip drip from the crease of his mouth down his right cheek; he spluttered, and managed one word that would simply have to do.

"B-br-other-r," he said, and he stopped holding on then, he let his eyes roll back where they wanted to go, and he might as well admit to himself now that Dean was crying, and Sam forgot about his left hand holding Dean's and his right hand broken and piercing, and Sam forgot that this was the opposite of what he'd expected, he's always wanted to go first but he'd expected to be the one crying for some weird reason but that was stupid, he knew it now and....and...

And goodbyes are stupid, because nobody wants to say goodbye, and it never works right, and Sam shouldn't have to say goodbye to Dean, because this morning it had been a good day to be alive, a rare kind of day, and now Sam was dying, and Dean was here, and Dean was his brother, and Dean was going to be alone now, and goodbyes are just so stupid....

But Sam forgot that too. Sam went limp and quiet, his life still making a mess on the floor beneath his body and the debris.

He'd only gotten one word out. It would simply have to do.

***

Dean was five, and he held the pudgy lump in his clumsy arms. It was okay, because they were sitting on the bed, so if Dean dropped the baby, at least there was something soft so he wouldn't get hurt. Dean laughed a little - that was stupid, of course he wouldn't drop the baby. He'd never dropped the baby.

Still, he was sitting on the bed, a circle of pillows around them, and he held the lump of baby Sam and fuzzy blanket in his arms, cooing like he used to see mom do, letting Sammy clutch at his fingers with his tiny, soft, funny looking hands.

Dean was eight, and he helped Sam climb onto the couch so they could sit next to each other. Dean gave Sam his Lion-o action figure, and told him to stay there. He went and got the remote from the kitchen table, grinning when he turned around and Sam was peeking over the back of the couch at him - even standing on the cushions on his tip-toes he barely was tall enough to see over the back. Dean grabbed the orange juice carton, bounded back over, and snorted a little when Sam flopped back to sitting on the couch, looking up at Dean and clutching his action figure, his hair in his face and only one shoe on, the other on the floor.

"You ready to watch Thundercats, Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. I wanna be Lion-o, kay?"

Dean grinned again, flipping the tv on, sitting next to his little brother, and setting the orange juice by his knee.

"Sure buddy, you can be Lion-o."

Dean was 11, and he was sitting on the edge of his bed, gripping his hair with his hands.

"Dean?" He looked up, and Sam was there, in his pajamas and rubbing his eyes like a classic image of a sleepy kid.

"Sammy, go back to bed."

"I thought I heard Daddy. Is he home?" Dean felt something in him hurt.

"Go back to sleep Sam, you'll see Dad in the morning."

"But De-"

"Sam." Dean looked at his brother, who was giving him that weird look Sam sometimes gave people; Pastor Jim used to say he felt like Sam was staring into his soul.

"Okay," Sam said, and he turned to head back to his bed, but not before he ran up to Dean and hugged him around the waist. Dean gaped, blinking and sputtering.

"Sam, wh-?"

"Don't be sad, Dean, kay?" Dean swallowed, looking away from those wide, young eyes. Not fair.

"Yeah...yeah, night, Sammy..." and Dean, and Sam went back to bed, and Dean heard his soft snores not five minutes later, about the same time he heard Dad mumbling roughly from the couch. Dean could smell the alcohol on his breath from there.

Dean glanced from the couch to his sleeping brother, and then he went back to looking at his knees, gripping his hair with his hands, and wishing his mom were there.

Dean was seventeen, and he walked like a bodyguard in front of Sam through the middle school doors. He picked out the strong from the weak, letting the bullies and the jocks know that if anybody messed with his kid brother, there'd be hell to pay, and Dean would be the one coming to collect. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and gave him a look of assurance. Sam looked up at him with trust in his eyes. Dean walked out of the school, feeling like the next six hours would take forever.

Dean was twenty-two, and he was standing proud and kind of fierce at Sam's graduation, his little brother in a gown and holding his diploma and wearing the valedictorian sash, and Dean was clapping but not whooping like some of the other people were, because he was sure if he opened his mouth he'd lose control over his tear ducts. Not that he had any tear ducts, of course - those were a myth.

Dean was twenty-seven, and he was high-fiving Sam on their way into the Blue Cove Elementary school, ready to get the job done and go grab a beer with his brother afterwards.

The past and the present were mixed together in Dean's head, flashes glancing over what his eyes were seeing now.

And now Dean was inside the rundown remains of Blue Cove Elementary School, kneeling next to the pile of debris that was pinning his brother to the ground, and tear ducts were a myth, but they dealt with myths everyday, so it was really not a big deal at all that he was crying next to Sam even as Sam suddenly screamed.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. This was not supposed to happen.

"Sam?!" Dean had been frantic to begin with, but now Sam was gurgling, blood apparent on his lips, eyes rolling and his left arm flailing - it was wrong, so wrong, but Dean didn't know _what _was wrong, and so he couldn't fix it, and this was killing him, it was _killing_ Sam....

"Sam w-what is it, oh god, Sammy Sammy no, wha...." he couldn't do anything, and where the hell was the rescue he'd called in? Seven minutes - what crap.

But Sam was beginning to lose consciousness.

"No Sam, don't!" Dean begged, and yeah, he had a reputation to keep up, and he had a pretty hefty pride level ya know, but he's willing to break out the big guns when a situation call for it, even if it means begging like a child for his brother to stay alive, "Don't you dare, you don't get to do this, you hear me?!" and since begging wasn't exactly working, maybe the 'you can't disobey a direct order, boy' approach would work, maybe, "Look at me, Sam! LOOK AT ME!" Dean had his right hand on Sam's face and his left hand was gripping Sam's.

There was no trying to find out what was wrong, and Dean couldn't hear sirens yet.

But then Sam grasp on his hand suddenly tightened, and he was spluttering.

And Dean knew, he knew what was coming, and he didn't want it, he didn't want it at all. He didn't want Sam to try this goodbye crap, he didn't want to hear his_ I love you_'s and _keep going_'s and _be strong for me_'s. He didn't want Sam to believe he was going to die, because Dean believed in Sam, and if Sam didn't think he was gonna make it then what the hell was Dean supposed to believe in?

Dean was shaking his head 'no' even as Sam shakily met his gaze with pain-ridden, glassy, faltering eyes. He knew Sam was still stuck on one word sentences, he could only give one word answers.

But one word wouldn't cut it, and it was not enough, it wasn't enough.

Except that it was. Because the one word that Sam got out was "Brother."

And Dean allows his first outright sob to get out then, because he couldn't think of a better way to tell someone _I love you_ and _I need you _and _you're stupid_ and _it'll be ok_ and _take care of yourself_ and _wash your hands before you eat_ and _smile_ and _have a good day_ and _you mean everything_.

"Yeah," Dean responded, nodding now, not ashamed that he was crying like a chick, not caring about pretenses or any of that stupid crap, "yeah, Sam. Brother."

But the worst part was that even as Dean said it, knowing this was something he couldn't fix, his mind was screaming at him that without Sam, Dean wouldn't be a brother anymore.

And even as Sam was still and his grip was loose and Dean was on the verge of outright sobbing, he could hear the whine of sirens begin through the gaping break in the wall next to them.

For the first time, Dean let the thought explode across his mind that they might not make a difference.


End file.
